


Dream for Tonight

by NachoDiablo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The First Avenger, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mild mentions of self harm ideation, Post-Bucky rescue, Post-Torture issues, Redefining relationships, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28713363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachoDiablo/pseuds/NachoDiablo
Summary: Steve and Bucky have both changed. Bucky hopes they can still find a way to fit together.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58
Collections: Star Spangled Secret Santa 2020





	Dream for Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buvkissteves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buvkissteves/gifts).



> Happy Holidays buvkissteves!! <3

“Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant--”

There’s a pillow tucked beneath his head, which is the most bewildering part of Bucky’s current situation. Hydra strapped him to a metal slab, sliced through his flesh, poked and prodded him with no regard for his screams of pain, and yet someone thought to put down a pillow.

“Two five five seven oh three eight, Barnes--”

Bucky has no illusions that the thin layer between the back of his head and the harsh chill of the slab was placed there out of concern for his comfort. Even with the pillow, a dull ache throbs in his skull from being dashed over and over against the slab as whatever poisons they’ve pumped into him shoot through his veins like boiling lava. Without the pillow he’d have surely bashed in his own head by now, rendered himself useless to whatever plan they have for him.

“Buchanan, Sergeant, three two five five--”

Not that Bucky is adverse to that outcome at the current moment. He’s wondered for a while now if he hasn’t already slipped from this world into whatever comes next. If that’s true, he didn’t make it anywhere heavenly, that’s for damn sure. Bucky had tried to be a good man, to do right by his family and serve his country, but maybe it hadn’t been enough.

“James Buchanan, Sergeant, three two five five seven--”

Or maybe he’s trapped in a dream. That makes the most sense, Bucky muses as the cracks on the ceiling fade in and out of his blurred vision. His Steve keeps showing up, slight and smiling, with that lock of blond hair flopped across his forehead. Fine-boned hands smooth over Bucky’s forehead, touch that Bucky cannot feel because his Stevie isn’t here, not really, but it provides comfort all the same. 

“Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant--”

Steve’s presence is enough to anchor Bucky and remind him that this is not real, it’s a dream. If Bucky were dead, someone as good as Steve would not be here suffering with him. And as much of a nightmare as most of his moments are, Steve pops in just enough to keep Bucky hopeful and grit his teeth through the endless agony just one more time.

“Sergeant, three two five five seven--”

Bucky hopes that dream Steve will stop by again soon. They’ve been apart for so long, even before Bucky’s capture. Dream Steve doesn’t say much, but he’s enough to keep Bucky going for just a little longer. They’ve never needed to spare many words between the two of them, never had to talk about what they were to each other. Because they were  _ everything. _

“Bucky? Oh, my God.”

Bucky smiles when he hears the familiar voice interrupt his own chanting that’s become second nature to the point where Bucky’s no longer sure if he’s still repeating his name and numbers aloud, or if they’re simply rattling around in his head on an echoed loop. His Steve is back. Bucky will have a moment of peace as he watches Steve smile over him and pretends to feel Steve’s hand cup his cheek.

Except the man who looms over him is someone entirely different. Tall with broad shoulders, a full jaw and worried expression under an army helmet. Panic flares as Bucky forces his eyes to focus. The people who come to defile him wear medical masks beneath heartless eyes. The agony in this stranger’s expression is unsettling; Bucky hates the flicker of hope that it brings.

The stranger leans in closer, his eyes boring into Bucky’s and stirring up a sense of uneasy familiarity.

“Is that…”

It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s  _ not, _ and Bucky bites down the second half of the question, feeling stupid, even in a dream, for thinking it might be.

“It’s me. It’s Steve.”

No, it’s not, but Bucky’s flicker of hope strengthens into a steady flame. He blinks and realizes he feels more lucid than he has in a long time, days or weeks or months, however long he’s been strapped down. The man starts undoing the restraints around Bucky’s arms and legs. For a moment Bucky fears it’s some sort of trap, and he’s about to throw up his fists in defense when he notices that, first off, he can’t actually lift them, but also there’s something in the set of the man’s mouth as he works on the restraints that’s awfully reminiscent of another stubborn blond.

“Steve?” Bucky asks cautiously, even though it can’t possibly be him. He waits for the man to correct him, or ignore him, or turn on him. Instead he huffs in fond annoyance and slides an arm under Bucky’s shoulders.

“Come on,” he replies, shifting him to sit upright, and Bucky breathes out a shaking sigh, a flood of relief as his muscles and joints shriek in protest with every movement.

“Steve.” It  _ is  _ him, it really is,  _ his  _ Steve. No amount of superficial changes can hide the telltale facial tics and low timber of his voice, the care in his touch as he keeps at the restraints with steadfast determination, the naked emotion in his gaze as it roams over Bucky, at odds with his steeled expression.

Try as he might, Steve never could keep his feelings to himself. Bucky has always loved that about him. He sinks easily into Steve’s embrace as he’s eased off the slab onto his own two feet, then hurried out into the dark echoes of the halls.

~

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

If Steve admits to a little pain, that means it was excruciating. He’d already evaded Bucky’s question as to what the hell happened. Bucky is aware that they’re on a time crunch, but he’s grasping at every piece of information he can get to make sense of what’s happening. 

“Is it permanent?” Bucky tries again.

“So far,” Steve replies. Bucky isn’t sure if that’s comforting or not. As grateful as he is to see Steve again, he’s not sure how he feels about this bigger version. He misses the way the slighter version of Steve felt wrapped in his arms or curled up against his back as they lie in bed together.

Then again, Bucky isn’t quite sure what the hell’s going on with his  _ own  _ body; he can’t fault Steve for his uncertainty. Bucky’s racked with fatigue, but he’s managing to harness some sort of coiled, unnatural strength from deep within his bones, something new and unrelenting.

Something dangerous.

He shifts back and forth, feeling as though he could run for a hundred more miles, then suddenly aching to collapse and close his eyes for a week. One minute he swears he can see each individual molecule of dirt on the floor, then he blinks and can’t even focus six inches in front of his face. Bucky isn’t sure if he’s still dreaming, or hopped up on endorphins, or detoxing from whatever he’s been injected with. Reality and dreams have blurred together for too long, and Bucky is  _ tired, _ but he has to keep moving, forward, go, go, go--

Steve tugs Bucky around a corner, and Bucky snaps, shifting his grip to grasp Steve’s wrist and shove him against the tunnel wall. Steve’s eyes widen in shock, but he doesn’t resist as Bucky pushes against him, cups his face with trembling hands and runs his thumbs along the warm skin of his cheekbones.

Bucky leans in, rests his forehead against Steve’s, and just  _ breathes, _ in and out, eyes fluttering shut as Steve’s hands move to rest tentatively against Bucky’s hips. Their noses touch, and with his eyes closed Bucky can imagine they’re back in Brooklyn, home in their apartment after a night out, leaning against their front door in the dark.

Just like they do back home, Bucky tilts his head in closer and parts his lips, and even though Steve’s breath hitches as his fingers tighten nervously against Bucky’s hips, he moves in to meet the kiss. All of Bucky’s uncertainty drains away as the kiss deepens. Steve’s hands become more sure as they pull Bucky in closer, and Bucky presses hungrily against Steve without concern for how the planes of his body have changed. 

They still fit together, in these new bodies. Bucky might not feel stable in his own skin, but entwined with Steve, he’s not unsure of anything. He lowers to his knees and works Steve’s pants open, and this,  _ this  _ is what Bucky needs, the familiar taste of Steve on the back of his tongue as Bucky takes him down his throat. Steve’s fingers tighten in Bucky’s hair as a strangled whine escapes from Steve’s lips. Those hands are unchanged, slender fingers and strong artist’s grip, firm but still gentle, even with their increased strength.

If this isn’t a dream, which Bucky is only about ninety percent certain of by this point, then they  _ really  _ have no time for this, but Bucky isn’t sure he could have gone another step without this affirmation, this irrevocable assurance that no matter what other bullshit is happening to them, this is  _ his  _ Steve. The world can burn, but they are still Steve and Bucky, now and always.

The blunt edge of Steve’s fingernails dig against Bucky’s scalp, right at that edge of pain and pleasure, as Steve crashes over the edge. Bucky swallows as much as he can, but some escapes and slides down his chin. He pulls back and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand as Steve helps him to his feet. Steve drags Bucky in for another kiss, letting his tongue chase his own taste in Bucky’s mouth.

An explosion startles them, but they don’t leap apart. Instead Steve kisses Bucky one more time, chastely, and laces their fingers together. 

“You good?” Steve whispers, and Bucky nods.

“I’m good,” he says, and it’s not the whole truth, but with Steve’s hand wrapped tightly in his own, it feels close enough.

~

Bucky tosses back another shot and pushes away from the bar. He turns to face Steve, who’s giving him an expectant look. Bucky frowns, and Steve shakes his head.

“I asked if you wanted to grab another round with the guys,” Steve said. He raises an eyebrow, then casts a not-so-subtle glance at the collection of empty shot glasses on the bar. “But maybe that’s not a good idea.”

It isn’t, but not for the reasons Steve suspects. Despite the amount of liquor he’s consumed, Bucky is still in possession of all his faculties. He’s been unable to reach any level of inebriation, leaving him shackled to the thoughts and emotions that leach into his brain in lieu of Hydra’s poisons.

Those first few moments of calm with Steve are long gone. It’s been made abundantly clear to Bucky that this is, in fact, reality and not a dream. And in this new reality, people finally see Steve for his strengths, which had always been obvious to Bucky. But somehow a broad chest and added height make Steve’s intelligence and charm much more apparent to everyone.

In this new reality, the toughest men Bucky’s ever had the pleasure of knowing are eager to pledge their lives alongside Steve. In this new reality, Steve has the ear of top intelligence officials. In this new reality, pretty women smile at Steve with all the same adoration and respect he has for them.

In this new reality, Steve is not  _ his  _ anymore. 

Bucky’s half hearted attempts to tease Steve and Agent Carter had fallen flat, not that either of them had noticed. He does not have the energy to fake a smile for one more second, especially not in front of the other Howling Commandos. Months of living in each others’ pockets have them well tuned to calling each other out on their respective bullshit.

Steve is still staring at him, so Bucky grins and pats him on the arm. “You go ahead,” he says. “I’m beat. See you in the morning.” 

He rolls his shoulders and makes a show of yawning, then heads upstairs. They have rooms above the pub for the night; Bucky is bunking with Steve. Bucky should be thrilled at the prospect of spending the night wrapped in Steve’s arms. Instead, he dreads the approaching moment when they’ll be alone together in their cramped room.

Ever since Steve freed Bucky, they’ve spent most of their time together. But they haven’t had a moment alone. Throughout their rescue, march back to camp, and debriefing, Steve has always been surrounded by a crowd. Everyone wants to talk to him, or thank him, or flatter him.

And Bucky finds himself fading to the background. Partly by choice, grateful that Steve is finally getting his due. But partly because he isn’t sure how to act around this new Steve. Especially not when he feels himself changing, too. 

Bucky will never know the full extent of what Hydra did to him. Whatever records they kept escaped along with Schmidt and Zola. But he feels it, an altering of his chemistry. Something unnatural in the way he moves now, the way his brain processes feedback and springs into action. 

But whatever Hydra had planned for him, it hadn’t been finished, and for now feels bound, untapped, waiting for the next steps to be breached. It drives Bucky mad, wondering what’s been done to him, what sort of monster he now has the potential to become. Steve has been built into something better, but Bucky’s become broken.

With so many distractions, it’s been easy to pull back from Steve. But now, they’ve got one bed and a stretch of downtime before the next battle begins. Bucky has nowhere to run. He sighs and undoes the buttons on his shirt, slipping it off and folding it on the broken chair in the corner of the room. His pants and socks follow, with his boots tossed aside on the floor. Maybe by the time Steve finishes carousing and makes his way to bed, Bucky will be asleep.

If Steve makes it to their room at all.

Tears sting the corner of Bucky’s eyes. It’s pathetic, mourning for someone who still stands beside him. But at this moment, Bucky doesn’t care. With all he’s been spared, he’s still lost so much. 

“Buck? What’s wrong?”

Bucky doesn’t turn around at the sound of Steve’s voice. He closes his eyes, steadying his breath and squeezing back his tears.

“Do you want me to go? I can crash in Gabe and Dernier’s room. Pretty sure neither of them will be back any time soon.”

Bucky doesn’t want to answer, but the pain in Steve’s voice stings him. He turns to find Steve standing in the doorway, shoulders hunched around his ears. He’s making no attempt to hide the misery scrawled across his face.

“You don’t have to go,” Bucky says carefully. “And I should be asking  _ you  _ what’s wrong. You look like hell.”

That makes Steve wince. Bucky forgets his own moping; he walks over and rests a hand on Steve’s arm. Steve looks down at it, studying, then raises his gaze to Bucky’s face.

“I can tell you’re… not comfortable around me.”

Bucky averts his eyes, but Steve reaches out to brush his knuckles against Bucky’s cheek. “It’s okay. I get it, I’m-- I’m different now. I don’t expect things to be the same, or for you to still want me--”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes snap back to Steve’s face. “Of course I still  _ want  _ you, you punk.”

Steve smiles sadly. “Sure. That’s why you've been avoiding me.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s fine, Buck. You’re still my best friend. We don’t have to… we can still…”

And Bucky breaks. They’ve come too damn far to dance around each other now. Who knows how many times Bucky almost died on that lab table? And Steve literally ran through fire to find him. Whatever hell they’re about to get pulled into next, Bucky wants this last night of peace, he  _ deserves  _ it, goddamn it, they  _ both  _ do.

He pulls Steve into the room and closes the door, making sure the lock clicks into place. Then he walks Steve to the middle of the room, clasping Steve’s hands and resting their foreheads together. 

“Nothing’s changed,” Bucky whispers, and it’s not even close to the truth, but it’s sincere all the same. “You and me, we’re still together, we’re still  _ us. _ I’m with you, til the end of the line.”

They never talked about it, this thing between them.  _ Til the end of the line,  _ they’d say, hoping the unwritten meaning was heard. In the beginning, it felt like a blessing, not having to search for fancy words. Now, Bucky wishes they had the language to wrap around and bind them together, impossibly tight, so that no matter what comes next, they’ll never be parted. 

And maybe Steve  _ does  _ understand, maybe those simple words are strong enough. He smiles as he squeezes Bucky’s hands. “Til the end of the line,” he agrees, before pulling Bucky into a kiss. Slow at first, but not hesitant as their hands release to tug at buttons and push away clothes, no barriers between them as they fall, tangled, to the bed.

Their bodies may be different now, in ways seen and unseen, but they’ve done this enough times that every motion is deliberate, reverent, a treasured memory repeated into something new. Steve murmurs words of love against Bucky’s skin as they move together, muffled gasps and sweat-slicked skin against rough sheets.

Afterwards they lie in silence. Steve’s arm is wrapped around Bucky’s waist, holding him close against his chest. They’re naked under the sheets, a risk that Bucky is willing to take for one night. He watches the moonlight flicker across the floorboards as Steve’s breath evens out into light snores against the nape of his neck.

In some ways, this is still a dream. Until Hydra is crushed and the war is won, their lives are in limbo. Even if they beat the odds and make it out alive, Steve’s trajectory has been irrevocably changed. He’s Captain America now, no longer Bucky’s alone. 

And with whatever Hydra’s done to him. Bucky’s not just Steve’s anymore, either. He’s lost a part of himself, can already feel the crackling of further bits aching to break away. Bucky can only imagine how much more of himself will splinter as the war wears on.

But just for tonight, they’re together, bathed in nothing but moonlight and love. Just for tonight, Bucky closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the feel of Steve against him, memories of Brooklyn blurring with the present. Just for tonight, they are Steve and Bucky, still half a dream before morning comes.


End file.
